Page 3 of Cowboy Dreams

He said, “It’s rather frigid to stand around outside tonight.”

“And a mite chilly, too,” I agreed.

“I have a car.” He gestured at a sweet, candy-apple-red Mustang.

“That thing? I thought it was a fire engine. Or maybe a tomato.”

“Does zero to sixty in five point one seconds.”

“Pointing straight downhill with a tail wind?”

His teeth flashed white as he grinned. “Want to find out?”

I thought about it for half a second, eyeing my old truck and the run-down bar and that shiny sports car owned by a guy whose name I didn’t even know. “Tell me your name first,” I said.

“Sylvester.”

“That’s a mouthful. What did they call you in school? Syl?” I tugged at the hem of his jacket. “Or Vest?”

“They called me Sylvester. And so will you. Ride?”

Well, if I was gonna be murdered by a psycho, that was a fine vehicle to die in. Wasn’t like I had so much of a great life to lose. Anyhow, for all his airs, he didn’t strike me as the serial killer type. “Sure.”

He popped the locks and held my door like I was a girl. I lowered myself in, folding my long legs and setting my hat in my lap. The car was roomier than I expected, despite being low to the ground, and the black-upholstered seat underneath me had the smell of real leather. I breathed that scent in, then said, “Bet these seats get hot, come summer,” because I had to say something that didn’t sound too impressed.

Sylvester walked around the front and swung in his side. “Keep insulting the Mustang, and you won’t be around long enough to find out how it gets in summer.”

“That’s six months,” I said, surprised. “You gonna be in these parts that long?”

“God only knows.” He said the words so low I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to hear. Then louder, “Grab on,” and he peeled that car out of the lot, throwing a spray of gravel.

I clung to the Jesus-bar. “Better hope that there gravel didn’t take out anyone’s window. This car ain’t exactly inconspicuous, if they wanna find you.”

“I doubt they could spot the new damage amid the dents in most of those trucks,” he said.

That was true, but cold enough that I said, “We’re working cowboys, mostly, in that bar. Small business owners, laborers. We ain’t got money for polished and shiny.”

After a minute of silence, other than the growl of the ‘Stang as he opened her up on the paved road, he muttered, “You’re right. I will pay for any damage that might’ve occurred.”

“Well, you’re not wrong about the dents,” I admitted.

He stepped on the gas harder and the needle climbed to ninety miles an hour. I hoped Deputy Morse was miles away, patrolling Main Street, and not speed-trapping tonight. There was something angry, or restless, or maybe hurting, in the way he drove that car forward. Didn’t seem like just a man having fun showing off his toy.

I gave him a couple of minutes, then one more, then I tried to change the tone. “Why’re you called Sylvester, anyway? Rich uncle? Mom was bitten by a cartoon cat while pregnant?”

He choked a small laugh and eased off the pedal a bit. Score one for me. “No, she was a diehard fan of Georgette Heyer.”

“George who?”

“A romance author.”

“Sounds like no kind of excuse to me.”

“Well, I like it.” He huffed a breath.

“Good thing, since you gotta live with it.” Before he could get his back up too much, I added, “I kind of like it too. Suits you, in a cut glass, black tie way. Bit of a mouthful for me to scream out though, when you’re sucking me off.”

His lips twitched. “Good thingyou’llbe suckingmeoff, then. ‘Joe’ is short and easy.”

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